Spirian Pride
by WedgePalmer
Summary: A 100 year civil war on Spiria was finally ended with Imperial intervention. Years later: a new Crusade by Chaos Forces on the outskirts of Imperial space has them turning to Spiria for a mass-founding. The Spirian 3rd and its brothers are going to war.
1. Phase One: Foothold

The sky was a patchwork of tracer fire and smoke-trails left by projectiles and aircraft, and not much could be heard above the shriek of missiles, and the throbbing sound of thousands of small-arms firing in the distance.

"What a bloody mess…" a voice growled. Captain Jarl turned from the window of the watch tower and snapped to attention: self-conscious of the tea-stain on his green/ochre fatigues. With his free hand, he tugged at the lapels of his long yellow trench coat in a vain attempt to cover it up. The man he saluted to was Colonel Vasques: a massive, well-built officer, popular with the men because he had worked his way from the ranks and understood their particular needs. This was important in any regiment, let alone a Light-Infantry one where men were the backbone of their forces. The only vehicles employed by the Spirian 3rd were fast-attack Sentinel walkers (two-legged machines with a one-man cab and light weaponry), Hydra anti-air batteries (quad-gunned aircraft-killers) and Basilisk heavy artillery pieces (capable of firing heavy Earthshaker rounds across an entire battlefield). The Spirian 3rd were specially trained in both defence and assault tactics, and came from Spiria: a planet where pollution and a one-hundred year civil war (in which chemical and biological weapons were commonly employed) had turned the seas poisonous and the skies crimson. Many of their current officers were picked because of their experience in the uprising. Jarl himself had not seen action during the war, but had been a corporal in the governor's personal Bodyguard-Company, thus ensuring him an Officer's rank in the guard. The stalemate had finally been shattered with the arrival of nine full regiments of Imperial Guard, who turned the rebels back and stormed the enemy capital city. In return, the Governor of Spira was expected to raise three Light Infantry regiments, one Heavy Infantry regiment and two Armoured hosts. Captain Jarl was stationed with the Spirian 3rd, in charge of 9th company.

He was utterly miserable there. Most of the Spirian 3rd were middle-come-upper class men who had a fairly average education and life before the army, but he was a high-born (the eldest child from a Guilder's family as it happened) and this showed on him: he was slightly overweight, and had a posh, clipped accent (as opposed to the low drawl the majority of his soldiers spoke with). When his family had offered him up to the guard, he had secretly hoped he'd get attached to an armoured or even artillery unit. Above all, he had prayed, not the infantry. He commanded minimal respect from his company and the only person under him who idolised him was his second: a young techpriest named Quall.

"Captain?" the Colonel barked, snapping him out of his daydream-like state and into attention once more.

"Sorry sir!" he mumbled "Just fatigue, it won't happen again!"

"See that it doesn't!" his superior snarled. He was loving the fact that he could boss-around a high-born, Jarl realised. "As you were."

"What are you doing here, with respect?" he sighed, relaxing and running a hand through his short, dark-brown hair.

"Just doing my rounds" he said, and then "which reminds me: when was the last time you inspected your company, Captain?"

Jarl shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed: "three days ago sir…"

"That was when we began the construction of our defences, correct?"

"Yes sir: which I have been observing day and night…from up here."

"It is an officer's duty to lead his men by example. What will 9th company be like on the battlefield if their Captain cannot even go down and watch them dig?"

"I protest, sir! I simply-" Jarl began, desperately.

"Don't you dare tell me you have been too busy. Too busy doing what?"

"I-"

"Shut up and get down there, Captain."

"Yes sir…"

"Anyone would think you were _scared _of your men" the Colonel laughed as he left the room. Jarl crumpled into a chair; head in hands. This watch tower had, miraculously, still been standing when they had arrived. It was part of the remains of a fort built here by the original colonists on this world. It was made of square, grey blocks of stone, with a square room at the top, and a rounded base. He had claimed it as his own because it had fascinated him: like quaint bits of machinery from broken servitors had when he was a child. He had once intended to build his own servitor from them, but had grown out of his habit. Now this tower had grabbed his attention in the same way and he had made his home in the upper room. The other officers had all claimed parts of the manor house which made up the centre of their compound, or the wine cellar (which it was rumoured still held wine). However; though all the rest of its defences had crumbled and become buried by the mud, this single tower stood, like some kind of monument to the God-Emperor of Mankind.

It made him smile to think about it, but he was strange like that.

A sudden whirring of servos announced the arrival of his aide-de-camp.

"Quall" he acknowledged, without looking up.

"Good evening sir!" the techpriest said. His voice had a whirring, static-like quality.

"Have we received our orders?" Jarl asked, standing and smoothing the creases in his uniform.

"Indeed we have, sir. I have them here."

The yellow-hooded man extended his right arm; an augemic implant, which possessed a wrist-mounted atmospheric scanner. In his palm he held a sealed envelope. Jarl took it and tore it open. Scanning its contents, he cursed.

"Problem, sir?" the robotic soldier asked, turning to the stove and shoving a little more wood on the flames.

"We're to hold this position for another two days, until we are reinforced by a Heavy-Infantry regiment called the 'Perenos Sirens'. Then companies 8 through to 15 are to march out with them into that bloody bastard shitstorm out there."

"I see why you are upset, sir. It does not seem a wise tactical decision to send over half the Spirian 3rd into an attack when we cannot be sure our current location is even secure."

"Not just that! It means the 9th will be taking part in the fighting." Jarl began to feel frustration building inside him at his companion's blank expression. For a techpriest, he was fairly understanding of human emotions, but he didn't interpret fear in the same way humans do. To him, fear was seeing your comrades fall around you or being unarmed in the face of a foe. He could not understand being afraid of events to come.

"We're going to die out there! This communiqué also _notes _that the Spirian 2nd and the rest of our forces out there are in full retreat. They've routed us! They probably have Armour, and air support!"

"Sir! I am certain that either way: you will find glory in battle!"

"That's what I'm afraid of." he muttered, slapping dust from the top of his cap and fastening his coat tightly about himself.

"Where are we going?" asked Quall

"An inspection. Bring the shotgun, please."


	2. Storm on the Horizon

Colonel Vasques stomped up the steps of the shattered manor house's front entrance. Two nervous men from 1st company, who stood either side of the elegant doorway, raised lasrifles.

"We have to search you, sir" the tall man on the left stammered.

"Sod off" the big Colonel barked, walking past them and shoving the doors open. Inside, aides ran to and fro, carrying data-slates or paper notes. He ignored them all and pushed past another pair of protesting guards, into the briefing room. Several Captains and Majors from different divisions of the regiment were seated around a table, at the head of which was seated the Commander-Colonel Bloan Felis. The Colonel despised the man: a fat-cat from high command who had taken control of the regiment in the absence of an off-world officer. Though Vasques was in command of the Spirian 3rd, this bloated coward was the one who bossed him around. He also had an agenda because Vasques was from the ranks. He was looked upon by the other officers (high-borns every one of them) like some poisonous animal.

"What the hell is going on here!?" Vasques roared, throwing down the communiqué and slamming a meaty fist atop it. One of the two elite troopers guarding the Commander-Colonel took a step towards him with balled-up fists, but Bloan stopped him with a wave of his hand. He was dressed in grease-stained white dress uniform, laden with underserved medals and awards, which barely covered his massive gut.

"Now now" he said, soothingly "what is on your mind, my dear Colonel?"

"You know bloody well, Commander-Colonel!" he boomed "You're mobilizing a large chunk of my forces and you're keeping me back here? It's my entitlement as Colonel of the Spirian 3rd to lead them into battle!"

"Ah, but they are moving out to reinforce the retreating Spirian 2nd and Roukan Chemtroopers who are retreating this way: there are plenty of officers out there who can command them, and it's a highly dangerous mission. We wouldn't want you getting hurt or, Emperor forbid, killed."

Vasques knew the real reason he was being kept behind: the Commander-Colonel didn't want a low-born soldier taking any glory that was available out there in that blasted wasteland and Vasques cursed them all for it.

"Who's going to be leading those eight companies then?" he asked, dreading the answer. The obese officer before him indicated a greasy-haired, thin man in the immaculate uniform of a Major to his left.

"Major Krin is a good officer, and he'll see your regiment right."

The Major smiled a toothy grin and the Colonel found himself disliking him instantly.

"Now if you have no other questions, I think you should probably get back to the regiment." the Commander-Colonel suggested.

Vasques stormed out without another word.

Back on the northern side of the base, trenches lined the only route north; with one narrow bridge for sentinels to cross overhead. Rain made a low rumbling noise as it drummed down, and every now and then, a massive blast would flicker on the horizon, followed by a throaty boom. Somewhere behind Jarl, inside the camp, there was an echoing thump. The Basilisks are opening up, he thought.

He hopped down into one of the muddy, flak board lined trenches, rain drumming a rhythm on his cap. Quall followed, snub-nosed combat shotgun clutched in his mis-matched hands and rain pattering onto his yellow hooded cloak.

Inside the trench, a trio of brown-and-ochre-clad men sat smoking iho-sticks. Two of them nodded to the Captain, but they paid him no other heed.

"You will stand to attention!" Quall barked, his voice amplified by implants in his throat. Jarl winced at the sudden barked order: everyone in this section of trench would know he was coming.

Reluctantly, the three men stood and gave lazy salutes.

"Where is your battledress?" Quall growled. Jarl noted that they were stripped to their fatigues and brown trench coats and did not wear the yellow-painted armor that was regulation in frontline areas. One of the men (a sergeant, by his pins) stepped forward and spoke out:  
"We've been working hard sir, but the armor was getting in the way as we dug so we removed it for the good of the assignment. Sir."

The sir on the end sounded a little forced, but Jarl was willing to overlook it. He quickly changed the subject:

"How goes the digging, Sergeant?"

"Trenches are almost complete, Captain Jarl sir. Just a couple of support trenches left to finish and the servitors are doing fine on their own."

"Very good: you are dismissed. Go and get some food from the canteen." Jarl instructed, trying to sound like a kindly officer, and not one that had no idea what he was doing. The three looked a little surprised at this.

"T-thank you sir" the Sergeant muttered "most kind of you".

They wandered off, joking and laughing, leaving Jarl to wonder whether he had changed their opinion of him.

"Sir?" Quall whirred.

"Best to let them have a break. They've been digging for ages now and the shift was about to change anyway."

"Shift change isn't for another hour sir" Quall reminded him

"If I'm ever going to be accepted by the men, I have to cut them a little slack" Jarl decided, out loud.

"Very good sir."

A couple of miles north of the Spirian 3rd's lines, listening post VII was situated in a crater beside what remained of the roadway. It was a concrete box, base five metres square. Long slits ran the length of the walls, good for firing from whilst remaining in cover. A ladder hung from the roof, where a twin-linked bolter turret was fixed. One of the 3rd's scout squads manned it: ten men in ochre/grey battledress and brown-khaki coats. Four of the ten were on watch at the windows and one was manning the gun turret whilst the other five slept in bedrolls on the floor. Sergeant Layton couldn't sleep: As a veteran of the uprising back on Spira, he was used to war zones, but nothing on this scale. The screaming of rockets wasn't so bad, but the sounds of battle, creeping gradually towards them down the massive, cracked roadway were terrible. Even at this distance he could hear the screaming of troops as they died in their dozens.

"Sergeant!" his man on the turret called. He got to his feet and scrambled up the rusting ladder.

"What is it?" he grunted, pulling himself into the cramped dome of the turret's interior. He didn't need an answer, however, as soon as he looked north he saw it.

"Emperor above." he gasped "What the hell is going on out there!?"

Just north of them was a shattered, broken convoy of Imperial Guard Sentinels and other light armoured vehicles. They were heading towards them at full speed, kicking up mud and dirt. As he stared, the Sergeant could see the flashes of anti-armor missiles and mortar shells bursting among them. A Sentinel went up in flames as a Rocket hammered into the side of its cab.

"What is that?" Layton growled, pointing

"They're retreating!" the soldier beside him whispered

"I can see that, you idiot." Layton sighed "I was pointing to the foothills on either side of the roadway. I think the enemy has infantry dug in around them, waiting to ambush the retreating convoy."

"What do we do?" asked the scout trooper.

"Get on the vox" Layton ordered "report back to command"

The trooper scrambled to oblige, and Layton took a seat at the toggles of the bolter.

"Come and get me you bastards…" he muttered, taking hold of the grips.


End file.
